


still mad about peru?

by sadie18 (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Battle Couple, Fluff, Future Fic, Historical Inaccuracy, Humor, Immortality, Japan, M/M, New York City, Peru, Time Skips, War, a itsy bitsy bit of angst, briefly, only if u squint though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sadie18
Summary: an angel and a demon walk into a garden, and the rest is literally ancient history
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 117





	still mad about peru?

**Author's Note:**

> liveblogging or contacting: oliivverwood following #sadie18 and #oliivverwood on tumblr! :)  
> enjoy!

"I didn't _force_ her to eat the apple." 

It's a weak argument, _pathetic,_ really, but it's enough for Oliver Wood to look at Marcus incredulously, his mouth snapping open and closed in an attempt to say something, _anything._

"All I did was encourage her a bit." Marcus attempts again, and Oliver's frustrated shrieks are muffled by his own wings, his fists clenched and his feathers quivering. 

"Do you _know_ how much trouble she's going to be in?" Oliver finally snaps, looking heavenward for strength. Marcus snickers. 

"Eve's a big girl, she can handle it." Marcus studies his own fingernails idly, his own dark wings folded and hidden, preening under the eyes of Oliver Wood. 

Oliver turns to throttle him, but his hands pause halfway, and Marcus laughs, watching Oliver's frown turn into a scowl. 

"I think that'd piss the big guy upstairs off." Marcus chuckles. "You know how he is with murder. You'd be an awful angel if I died at your hands." 

"You're _immortal,_ Flint." Oliver grouses. "I literally can't kill you. Even if I tried. Which I didn't." 

"Sure thing, Wood." Marcus rolls his eyes, stretching and yawning. He looks around Eden one last time, just to see it before it's probably destroyed by the wrath of God and whatnot. 

It's too bad. Eden is much prettier than his pit in Hell.

"Anyways, it's been real, Wood." He waggles his fingers. "See you in a few centuries, maybe." 

Oliver looks alarmed at this. "I sure hope _not."_

It's too late- Marcus has gone, the only traces of him ever being there at all being the faint smell of sulfur and smoke. 

* * *

Marcus doesn't like Egypt.

It was too hot- he grumbles about it on an hourly basis as he floats down the Nile in a silly boat- perhaps he _wasn't_ the pharaoh, but he was important enough, he supposed, to take the fancy little boat on a joyride. 

"I could be the pharaoh." Marcus says to nobody, talking to thin air. 

Marcus has _three_ simple joys in Egypt. One, Cleopatra was really hot. Two, so was her husband, Mark Antony. Three, they let him use the nice boat.

Marcus is fantasising about the _fantastic_ menagè-trois of the night before until his train of thought is interrupted by a big splash, his boat stopping, and the sudden commotion on the banks of the Nile. 

Marcus stands up lazily, standing at the head of the boat. Someone's fallen into the river- he's having trouble swimming! The women are shrieking and pointing, dropping their woven baskets and pausing conversation. 

Suddenly. 

A saviour. 

A tan, brown haired stranger is diving gracefully into the water, swimming with broad strokes to pull the man out of the water. His shoulders ripple under the surface of the water, his tunic floating. 

The stranger and the drowning man swim to the boat- it's the closest, after all, and Marcus harrumphs as they crawl up the sides. 

The not-drowning man is now shivering, praying, and thanking the unknown hero. He turns around, and Marcus is about to berate him for getting on a royal boat when-

"Oliver Wood." He says sourly.

Oliver glares at him from under water-soaked curls, wringing out the edges of his clothes. "Why are you on the pharaoh's boat, Flint? Let me guess- sex, bribery, or murder?"

Marcus smirks. "The first one." 

The not-drowning man is watching their strange interaction, and Marcus flicks his hand boredly, shooing him to the back of the boat. 

Oliver scowls, and Marcus just grins cheekily.

The _fourth_ simple pleasure of Egypt- pissing Oliver Wood off. 

"So, other than _that_ , what other angelic business have you been up to?" Marcus says conversationally, passing Oliver a goblet of mead. He declines, shooting him a disbelieving look. Marcus shrugs, and chugs it instead. 

"None of your business." Oliver snaps, crossing his arms and sniffing. Marcus rolls his eyes.

"Come on- if it's all a part of the divine plan, I'll find out eventually." Marcus goads, sipping at his own cup. 

Oliver's frown deepens. It's delightful. "You will _not_ tempt me, demon." 

Marcus grimaces. "I do have a name, you know."

Oliver throws his hands up in the air, muttering something about " _demons with no morals- can't keep it in their pants-"_ and a white feather falls to the ground under him. 

"Look!" Marcus points out happily. "You're shedding!" 

Oliver looks ready to murder him. 

Instead, he gestures to the boatman. 

"I hope to never see you again after I get off this boat." Oliver mumbles.

Marcus just smiles- and it lacks the malice it normally does. 

* * *

Greece is fun. Marcus likes Greece, _much_ more than he'd liked Egypt. There's this fun thing called sports, where a bunch of oiled-up, mostly naked, athletic men compete against one another in a test of testosterone. It's all one game of " _who has the bigger dick?"_ Marcus loves it. So much trouble out of the abundance of unchecked testosterone.

There's bathhouses too. Those are absolute _hotspots_ of sin- Marcus is gleeful whenever he catches the occasional politician's sons groping another citizen. 

The only thing he _doesn't_ like about Greece is their beliefs. Marcus doesn't know _who_ had the bright idea of making up some mythical-man named Zeus, and giving him a whole incestual family tree that became the religion of the Greeks, but he hopes he gets to personally torture him one day. 

" _Bah."_ Marcus grimaces, watching a group come out of a temple, preaching and shouting to anyone who gave enough a damn to listen. "Idiots." 

Marcus wonders what he'll do with his day. Perhaps he'll run up to the government structures, whisper some devilish thoughts into the leaders' ears, cause chaos around the city. 

Not too much chaos, though. 

Marcus _likes_ Greece. 

Perhaps he'd go to the amphitheatre. Make fun of the silly plays. Perhaps he'd talk to some of the philosophers. He could tolerate them- their denunciation of everything real and true delighted him to no end. 

His musing is interrupted when something- no, _someone_ bumps into him. _Hard._

Hard enough that he's falling backwards, and he grabs the tunic of whoever had hit him, pulling them down with him. 

"Ow." Marcus grunts, wincing at the sore spot on his lower back. "What the _hell_ -" 

"I am _so_ sorry-" The voice is too familiar. Marcus frowns, looking up and grabbing the chin of the stranger and jerking it to face him. 

Oliver's apology is halted immediately, and his face melts into one of shock, then disdain. 

"You didn't have to pull me down with you." He remarks crankily.

Marcus grins nastily. "Now, what's the fun in that? Anyways, you bumped into me first-" 

"Why are you here?" Oliver cuts him off, sounding impatient. 

"Well, I was in need of some fresh air after my hourly tempting- today at the bathhouse, it was _wonderful,_ the things he could do with his ton-" 

" _No!_ No!" Oliver snaps, and his face is turning pink. "Why are you in _Greece?_ Don't you have- I don't know, restless souls to torment?" 

"I feel like this chat would be better to have if you weren't still sprawled on top of me in the middle of the city." Marcus says conversationally, folding his arms behind his head. "But if you'd like to stay, I suppose could get used to it." 

Oliver's pink face goes completely red, and he scrambles up and off of Marcus in record time. He brushes his clothes off as Marcus gets up slowly. 

"Answer me." Oliver says with as much dignity as he can muster. Marcus holds in his snicker- Oliver's so ticked off he looks like he might pop his wings. 

"It's a busy civilisation- interesting. Not much else out there to be honest." Marcus shrugs. "Your turn." 

Oliver looked confused. "Keep helping with the development of the cities." 

Marcus pretends to snore. "How boring." 

Oliver sighs. "Sometimes. I suppose chances of us seeing one another again are too high for me to say I hope to never see you again."

"It's all a part of the divine plan." Marcus says grandly. 

With that, Oliver gives a small salute, and he turns away, walking down the path until he was a faint speck of white in the distant. Marcus can't help but feel faintly disappointed. 

* * *

Japan goes to war quite often, Marcus finds. 

"Oh my." Marcus says, unimpressed, as he watches a Mongol man get impaled by a katana. It gets boring after a while. His own blade is held limply in his left hand- he admires how it glints in the pale moonlight, sharp and crude against the damp peat. 

His armour is cool too, he supposes. 

Japan is probably the prettiest out of Earth's destinations he's been in- the cherry blossoms are gorgeous, the cities are clean, and the people were polite. 

It's all so _boring._

Nobody succumbs to temptation here- and if they do, it's rare. 

Marcus never thought he'd miss _Egypt,_ but here he was, in the middle of the battle, mourning for Cleopatra's comfortable chambers and servants. 

A clang of sword against sword jolts him out of his daydream, and he lifts his sword, unbothered. Two men- a Mongol and a member of Marcus' own battalion are fighting fiercely. The Mongol man is strong, vicious and fast. Marcus charges- perhaps he could get _some_ entertainment out of this forsaken night. 

The man on his side sends him a strange look through the slit in his armour- the brown eyes are familiar, but Marcus doesn't have time to think about it because the Mongol has sliced towards the bottom of his leg, cutting his calf.

"Ouch!" Marcus groans, and it's by sheer will he doesn't continue to curse angrily. 

He jabs towards the Mongol man, who dodges, leaving his flank open. The familiar stranger cuts through it with ease, and the Mongol man falls down, sputtering prayers before he's silent. 

"Thanks, Flint." The man says, and Marcus is pulling off his own helmet and _freezes._

"Been following me, Wood?" Marcus tries for casual, instead sounding choked up. 

Oliver snickers. "Nice helmet hair." 

Marcus runs a hand through it, feeling self-conscious for the first time in his life. "Take of your helmet and we'll see how good _yours_ is." 

Oliver takes it off gracefully, tucking it under his arm. His curls are plastered to his neck and forehead with sweat, the top still fluffy and seemingly _not_ bad. At _all._

"Earth is big, Wood." Marcus ruffles Oliver's hair for him, just to piss him off, (and maybe see the adorable frown he'll definitely have afterwards). "How is it you keep running into me?" 

Oliver scoffs. "Don't let your head get any heavier, or your neck will snap. It's pure coincidence that we've met." 

"You know what they say." Marcus says innocently as they walk off the battlefield while the war rages around them, shouting and fire and swords overloading his senses. "First time is an accident, second time is a coincidence, third times a pattern!"

"If it's God's will to punish me by making me meet you so often, then so be it." Oliver says, albeit a bit mournfully. 

"You _wound_ me, Wood." 

"No, that _Mongol_ man did- are you still bleeding?" 

"Why?" Marcus turns to him, grinning nastily. "Don't tell me that you _care?"_

Oliver's skin turns pink under the speckle of freckles dusting his cheekbones and nose. "Don't know where you got such a notion."

Marcus begins to look forward to their next meeting.

* * *

Marcus had been at sea with Francisco Pizzaro's fleet for what felt like _forever._ He almost thanks _God_ when he finally sees land- instead settling for a quick nod at the sky.

They'd just docked into what Pizzaro was calling _Peru._ Marcus took a rare moment to appreciate it- real _beauty,_ in the rolling green mountains and blue waters. 

"There's a civilisation here- the _Inca_." Pizarro says, and Marcus doesn't particularly like the greedy glint in his eye- the more he gives in to sin in his mortal life, the more Marcus gets to torture him in his afterlife, forevermore. "Their roads are said to be paved with gold, their temples inset with diamonds and emeralds- we'll be _rich._ " 

Marcus just _allows_ it.

A boy is watching them from the coast- Pizzaro hasn't yet noticed him, but Marcus catches his eye. 

It's enough to send the boy running, kicking up dirt and sand as he goes- the commotion has Pizzaro swivelling around. 

"Now, we _conquer._ " Pizarro says grandly, and the fleet erupts in cheers. Marcus stifles a yawn. 

It feels like moments later that Francisco Pizzaro has captured Atahualipa, the emperor, and is ransoming him for 24 tons of gold. Everything feels like a moment when you're immortal, Marcus supposes, but the speed in which Peru was about to change didn't sit right with him. 

Nobody else was in the temple except for Francisco, his men, and Atahualipa, Marcus is posted by a column outside, polishing his gun

A man is walking down the corridor confidently, attempting to enter the temple. A flare of sudden, unexpected panic- Marcus pulls the man around the waist behind a column, so the other guard doesn't see him. 

Marcus already knows who it is as soon as they're pressed up against one another behind the column. The sweet smell of honey and something fresh, the familiar brown curls. 

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Marcus hisses, tightening his grip around Oliver, who's struggling to get away as quietly as he can. 

"Do you _really_ think that your men will let Atahualipa go?" Oliver snaps. "I can't let them kill the _emperor,_ Flint, let me _go."_

Marcus pulls him harder, jerking him back till they're face to face, inches apart and snarling at each other. 

"If anyone enters that room that's not Pizarro's crew, they'll shoot them on sight." Marcus spits. "They'll load you with bullets until you're more gunpowder than flesh and blood." 

"I'll _live."_ Oliver retorts. "I'll _survive._ " 

"So they pump you full of lead, and you suddenly get back on your feet?" Marcus says skeptically. "And reveal divinity to mortals? _Think_ for a minute, for _fuck's_ sake!" 

"Where there's a will, there's a way." Oliver's confidence is so naive, so _innocent._ Marcus wants to laugh in his face, but the idea of Oliver getting torn apart by bullets, his human form sewing itself back together cell by cell slowly and _painfully-_

Marcus doesn't want to see it. 

"I'm not letting you go." Marcus says, not even caring for how his voice cracks on " _you."_

Oliver whirls his head around. "Why do you _care?"_ He snarls. "This sort of chaos, the prospect of revealing celestials, this _mess_ is exactly what you demons _live_ for, isn't it?" 

Marcus' face hardens, his fists clenching in anger. 

Then he lets him go, and turns around, his eyes slamming shut, squeezing till he sees stars dancing over his eyelids. Oliver is running off without a second glance- but it's too late. Within their period of bickering, the Incans had pulled together 24 tons of gold, and Pizarro had _still_ strangled Atahualipa. 

It was with Marcus and Oliver that the last Incan emperor fell, and the Empire of the Sun fell with it. 

* * *

What was it, with mortals, their Empires and their sun? 

The Empire on Which the Sun never Sets is mediocre, at best- London is dreary, wet, and grey from the new factories that are pumping toxins into the air- it lacks the clean, effortless elegance that Japan had, or the excitement of the voyage he'd had with Pizzaro, and the British add _milk_ to their tea- the horrors never truly end, but Marcus discovers sin in the lonely corners and dark alleyways of the city. 

Marcus sniffs as his patent leather boot plops into a puddle of murky water on the cobbled street. 

Yuck. 

Horse-drawn carriages clip-clop against the stones, whispered conversations and drunkards littering the street. It's late at night, and the streetlights are dim. 

Marcus is staying in a large house on the outskirts of London that used to belong to a wealthy family, and has been for the past five years- it took two minutes to charm the parents, another two to seduce their daughter, and another five to send them on a vacation to France, where they've been ever since.

Mortals were so _simple._ It drove Marcus mad. 

Marcus enters a little pub that he's grown quite fond of, supposing that perhaps if he did a little extra work, he could bring a man and his wife home for a little fun. 

London was too boring. He'd have to leave soon, after just _five_ years. Bah. 

He settles at the crowded bar, his lip curling downward as he's jostled. The pub is small, always filled to the brim with working men and busty waitresses. Pipe smoke fills the air and it's always too stuffy, too loud, but Marcus has made peace with it. 

He notices that the bartender polishing glasses is not the one he has grown accustomed to ordering from. The usual man is stout but strong, with a thick black beard and moustache and a grouchy demeanour. New boy, however, was tall, slimmer build, curly brown hair that makes Marcus' heart react with a pang, and he's polishing the glasses delicately. 

Marcus taps the bar impatiently, and the bartender turns around slowly. 

Who else could he have expected? 

Oliver's eyes widen comically in surprise- Marcus looks him up and down. He looks so _common,_ as if he's really a mortal and not an _angel,_ with the basic white fabrics for a top and cotton black pants, the outfit of the working class. His face is ruddy red with the warmth of the bar. 

( _He's beautiful, he's so_ good)

"What can I get you?" Oliver says with a lilting accent- Scottish, perhaps, meaning he's been in Britain for a long, long time. 

( _How long?)_

"Whiskey, please." Marcus mumbles. Oliver nods tersely. 

( _He's still mad about Peru, how the_ hell _is he_ still _mad about Peru-)_

"Are you still mad about Peru?" Marcus blurts, cursing himself instantly. What a _blundering buffoon_ he was! Oliver stiffens immediately, just for a second, before resuming to his work.

"No." Oliver lets out a breathy laugh. "I'm not still mad about Peru." 

The way Marcus sags with relief is embarrassing. "Good. Good, good good goodgoodgood." 

Oliver turns to him, and he looks amused, the corner of his mouth quirked up. 

"Now why do you care if little old me is still mad?" Oliver quips, sliding his whiskey towards Marcus. 

Marcus splutters unattractively as he chokes on his small little sip of whiskey, uncaring that some of the other patrons of the bar were looking at him strangely. 

"I mean-" Marcus settles. "- you're an angel. A soldier of God. What if you snitch and he smites me?" 

Oliver snorts. "You demons and your theatrics." 

"The English _love_ theatrics." Marcus sniffs. "I'll have you know that Shakespeare wrote sonnets about me. _Sonnets!"_

"Shakespeare wrote sonnets about everything." Oliver rolled his eyes. "He'd probably write a ballad about Agares."

Marcus' mouth dropped open. "Agares is the most _hideous_ demon in Hell." 

Oliver looks smug. "Exactly. 

Oliver and Marcus spend the rest of their night bickering while Oliver ignores the rest of his customers. They all leave in a huff, slamming the thick doors behind them as Marcus giggles to himself. 

It's the wee hours of the morning when Marcus is watching Oliver close up, and they begin their stroll down the street together. 

"How long have you been in Britain?" Marcus asks. 

Oliver shrugs. "70 something years, maybe?" 

Marcus frowns. "I've been here five years and I'm sick of it. Are you not bored?" 

Oliver shrugs again. "I like Britain." 

Marcus fidgets with his fingers. "Do you not feel lonely, being on your own? Everyone around you dying and being born over and over again?" 

( _Come with me)_

Oliver's mouth slants in a half frown half smile. "My work here is not quite done."

( _Maybe one day)_

* * *

Marcus anxiously waits at the ports of New York. 

It's 1945, and America's men are coming home. 

The ships are docking slowly, molasses-slow- Marcus taps his foot impatiently, his hands jammed unceremoniously in his pockets.

The soldiers are sticking their heads out the windows, and all around him the crowds on the docks erupt into cheers, tears and screams. The men are clambering off the boat, and people are spinning, hugging, crying and Marcus is craning his neck to spot the familiar wide smile, crinkled eyes, curly brown hair-

"Looking for me?" 

Marcus turns around so fast he _swears_ he got whiplash- and there he is- Oliver Wood, in the flesh, looking ever so handsome in his uniform.

"Oliver." Marcus breathes, not _"Wood",_ not _anything._ Just Oliver. 

Peace. Marcus is at peace. 

"Hi." Oliver smiles, blushing, scratching his neck awkwardly. 

It's milliseconds before they're crushing each other in a hug, and it's strange that they've really _never_ had physical contact like this before, surprising how _nice_ it is-

Oliver Wood is the only constant in Marcus Flint's life, and damn if he wasn't worried about him after not seeing him for a century. 

"You look a hundred years older." Marcus lied into Oliver's ear, and the rumble of his laughter is _so so so_ comforting. 

"I _feel_ a hundred years older." Oliver says softly. "The things some mortals did- I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it." 

"War brings out the good and the bad." Marcus pulls back, adjusting Oliver's hat jokingly. "If it makes you feel better, I get to personally torture some of those brutes." 

"For angelic reasons, I am not allowed to say it makes me feel better." Oliver winks. 

The sun begins to set on the horizon, and their tall figures, arms over each other, cast shadows on the dock. 

* * *

2235 sees the Earth at the end of it's lowest point- the air is murky with pollution and radiation, buildings are piled over one another, interconnected so fiercely that you could walk across countries without having to touch the ground, the _real_ ground once. 

It's bright out, all the time, whether from the bloated sun or from bright neon lights that expel darkness from their nighttimes. Society has fallen, been rebuilt, and been dismantled again- people steal for livelihood, kill for survival. 

"Did you ever think the world would come to this when Adam and Eve started roaming that little yard of their's?" Marcus says conversationally, wrapping an arm around Oliver's waist.

"If by _little yard_ you mean _the Garden of_ _Eden,_ or the first paradise, then no." Oliver glares at Marcus, but leans into the touch anyways. 

"Well it wasn't exactly a _big_ garden." Marcus sniffs. "Heard the fruit was good though." 

Oliver smacks Marcus around the head, but gives into Marcus' grumpy pout with a peck, the two of them illuminated by the neon purple of the outside lights flooding through their window. 

[ _fin_ ]

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments appreciated <3


End file.
